The Sisters (and cousin) headed back to the airport this morning. And I was once more thrust into my least favorite thing about being at my parents’ house. The isolation. They don’t have any internet access at all, often lose phone service due to wind/rain/general crappy weather conditions and I’m at least 30 minutes from any semblance of civilization. At least civilization that does not include the savagely overpriced convenience stores meant for tourists that are but a short car jog from my parents’ house.
I mean, it’s nice for the kids. They love being able to be in the middle of nowhere. Able to run freely, scream without limits and discover new bugs, sticks and other sundry valuables. And for them, I love it here. And for my Dad, as this is where his true spirit resides. In the rocks and bluffs, in the scrub brush and cottonwood trees, and above all else, in the river. But I deeply value my daily connections with people, even when those connections are often only online. I miss the odd wave and hello with our neighbors. I miss the sweet phone calls from friends just calling to check in. I miss IM’ing with friends I hardly ever get to see. I just miss the connections. When I’m here keeping up with those connections not only is inconvenient, it also feels wholly selfish for some reason. Perhaps because I have to take such a large chunk of time away from my Dad to go into town to touch base with those connections. Perhaps because I have to continually hush my children in the library while I’m checking in with those connections. Perhaps because it is selfish. But at the same time I feel like I have to be able to give myself permission to be selfish in this way, because it is these connections who have helped me find my way away from the anger and denial and into acceptance. So that I can be here with my Dad and truly just be here, in whatever capacity he needs me. And that is, truly, such a gift. Perhaps what feels selfish is just me taking care of me.
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